The little ants they march along,
in neat thin lines they heed no foe,
they march without a gallant song,
well of course, they're ants, you know?
The bird swoops in and spies a meal,
moves in, scoops up, moves out,
the kid behind the victim feels a gap,
fills it, no doubt.
The late ant crushed into a dream
has made no anthill poor,
he's not remembered by his queen,
she has a thousand more.
The kid who filled the empty space
did dare to look around,
he saw his mindless, friendless race
that lived without a sound.
The child was a little one,
his feelers still not grown,
he hadn't lost his will to think
yet kept this truth unknown.
But then he saw his army's course,
a bird that blocked their path,
so he broke free without remorse
and found a looking glass.
While his peers were all consumed at once
by the fattened, frenzied foe,
the little one was burned alive
by a beast in child's robes.
So in the end the story's sad,
the hero conquered none,
and his brothers too are also ******
so now this story's done.